by Roz Denny
Sarah bit her lip. "Afraid not. Osamu will be out of town. He has students in competition. Maybe he'll make your first league game." She hated disappointing Mike, but it couldn't be helped.
"Guess so," he muttered. "It's good you and Aunt Mitzi are gonna watch this one, but I hope Sam can come when I really play." He frowned. "Today Coach said I need more work on kicking. Too bad Sam isn't gonna be around this weekend. Most of the guys have a dad to kick the ball around with them."
Sarah busied herself stirring the stew. She jumped when some splashed on her blouse. "Uh, maybe I can squeeze in some time Sunday afternoon. Would you like to take your soccer ball and a picnic lunch to the park near Fort De Russy? We haven't done that before."
"Aw, Mom!" He made a face. "What if any of the guys see me? I mean, you're my mom! They'd think I was a sissy or something. I'll wait for Sam."
Sarah recognized some of her own stubbornness in the set of his chin, and yet she resented the social conditioning that made life difficult for single mothers—especially mothers of boys. She slapped a lid on the stew.
Mike sniffed the air. "What's for dinner?"
"I wondered when you'd get around to the really important stuff. Canned stew. With fresh fruit for dessert," she added, wondering guiltily about the nutritional content of their main course. "Mike, I'm bushed and I still have laundry."
"Yuck! We always have stew. You're tired too much. When Todd Wilson's mom is tired, they go out for hamburgers. Why don't we do that?"
Sarah handed him the bowls. "I explained that property taxes went up. Plus, I have to save enough money to fix the car air conditioner. The heat wears me out, Mike." Her eyes begged for his understanding.
"Why don't you just buy a new car? The Clines bought one. It's bright red. Real neat. I saw Jim get out of it at school this morning."
"Really?" Sarah only knew Mrs. Cline through PTA. She'd been the most vocal mother at the first parent soccer meeting.
"Yep." He kicked at the ball and watched it smack against the underside of the table, displacing flatware.
Sarah straightened the forks and spoons. "I imagine the Clines both have good jobs."
Mike hooted. "Jim's mom stays home and bakes brownies. His dad works. Jim says he does vestments or something."
"Investments," Sarah corrected, taking his ball away. "That means people give him money and he knows where to put it to make more."
"Why don't you give him some money? Then we could buy a new car, too." He gave her an expectant look and stopped trying to retrieve the ball she'd placed out of his reach on top of the refrigerator.
"I wish I could." She laughed. "Go wash up. Put that dirty shirt in the laundry and get a clean one from your closet." She ruffled his hair affectionately and softened her tone. "Listen, Mike. Investing isn't all that easy. It takes money to get started, and right now we don't have a penny to spare."
Sarah steeled herself for the type of outburst she'd dealt with lately whenever she'd refused something he wanted because money was tight. But this time her son remained silent. His shoulders sagged and he trudged out, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. Sarah didn't know which was worse, his temper or this dejection.
When it came time to eat, neither of them showed much interest in the stew. Sarah ate a bite now and then between sorting bills. She wondered which ones could be juggled to work in the car repair.
Mike picked at his food and kicked his feet rhythmically against the table leg. He was about to get a warning when the telephone rang. Sarah rose to answer it, hurrying into the hall.
"Mrs. Michaels?" a deep voice queried.
"Yes," she said hesitantly, not recognizing the caller. For no apparent reason, a chill raised goose bumps on her arms. She anchored the phone against her shoulder and rubbed them away.
"My name is Gabe Parker."
Sarah waited for him to say more, but the line merely crackled with static. "Yes?" This time her tone was sharp. Her meat was getting cold and she had at least three loads of laundry to do before calling it a night. "Whatever you're selling, Mr. Parker, I'm not buying. To put it bluntly, I'm broke."
He laughed, and Sarah retorted, "If my lack of funds amuses you, Mr. Parker, I assume you're not a bill collector."
"No ma'am, I'm not." His tone was suddenly brisk. "It was my understanding that Bill Evans, from Befriend an Island Child, called you about me. I've been assigned to your son, Mrs. Michaels, and as I'm in the area, I was wondering if I could drop by for a few minutes to get acquainted?"
Sarah's stomach bottomed out. Yes, she remembered now. Mr. Evans had told her about Gabe Parker. She'd only half listened, not believing anything would come of it. From the kitchen, she could hear Mike asking who was on the phone. She clutched the receiver until her fingers ached, not knowing how to answer either her son or the stranger on the other end of the line.
"Hello?" The caller seemed puzzled by her silence.
"I'm still here, Mr. Parker," Sarah said weakly. "It's just…well, I haven't had an opportunity to discuss this with Farrell."
"Discuss what, Mom?" Somehow, Mike had managed to reclaim his soccer ball. Now, with the cocky grin of a boy getting away with something, he bounced it across the room and down the hall. The man was speaking again, but because of the noise, Sarah missed what he said. "Mike," she yelled, "put that ball down this minute and finish your dinner."
"You have two sons, Mrs. Michaels?"
"Lord, no," Sarah said, not knowing why she found the question humorous—unless it was because she didn't seem to be dealing well with even one son tonight. "His name is Farrell. He prefers to be called Mike."
"I see. Mrs. Michaels, since your son's right there, do you suppose you could discuss it with him and decide? I live across town. This would be a good time for us to get together, lay down some ground rules."
Ground rules. Sarah liked the sound of that and she liked his voice. "Forgive me, Mr. Parker," she said, making the decision on the spur of the moment. "I realize you've volunteered precious free time. Come on over and I'll fill him in before you get here. Do you need our address?"
"No, ma'am. It's on my introduction papers. It'll take me about fifteen minutes. Will that give you enough time?"
"That'll be fine," she murmured, smoothing a hand down her stew-spattered blouse. He made her feel old, calling her ma'am, and she wanted to change into something clean. But Mr. Parker wasn't coming to see her. Besides, he was probably used to dealing with disheveled mothers. Mr. Evans from the agency said he'd had his last assignment three years, she recalled.
The caller clicked off and Sarah was left holding a buzzing phone. Thrown in a sudden panic, she hurried to the kitchen and shouted for Mike.
He appeared in the doorway, looking nervous. "Don't take my soccer ball away, Mom. I won't bounce it in the house again. Honest!"
Sarah cleared her throat, stacked the bills, then asked abruptly, "Do any of your friends at school have men they spend time with who aren't their fathers?"
"Sure, Mom. Danny Ruggles has an uncle who picks him up. Some of the guys do things with their mom's boyfriends." He sat down. '"Course, they aren't stuffy like yours."
Sarah's breath escaped in a slow hiss. "If you mean Harvey Denton, he is not my boyfriend. He's an associate in the law firm where I work. Occasionally he invites me to go with him to a performance or community function." She caught herself sounding priggish and dropped into the chair beside her son. "Anyway, I didn't mean boyfriends. Ah, have you ever heard of a program called Befriend an Island Child?"
He shook his head.
"Well, sometimes people volunteer to spend time with children who have only one parent. To be a grown-up friend to them. Men for fatherless boys and women for motherless girls. A friend wouldn't have as much time as a real father, you understand," she rushed to say when his eyes sparked with interest. "Some volunteers have families of their own. At the most, a man might have a few hours a month to spend."
"You mean someone might have spare time t
o kick a soccer ball around with a kid?" He brushed biscuit crumbs into a neat pile, looking hopeful.
"Yes, or at least, I assume so." Now Sarah was worried. Not all men were sports enthusiasts. Take Harvey, for instance. She should have thought to ask Gabe Parker that all-important question.
"Do you think I could get a friend, Mom? Will you call them guys tomorrow? I'd like one by this weekend." He ran the whole mouthful of words together without taking a breath.
"Whoa," she said. "It's those guys, and there's no guarantee, Mike. The decision is up to the volunteer." Then, because he looked so crestfallen, she quickly explained about Gabe Parker.
"Wow, that's neat! Can I call him Gabe or will I have to call him Mr. Parker?"
Sarah wanted to stay calm, but it was hard not to catch fire from his enthusiasm. "We'll have to ask him. Remember, some volunteers are older."
"But he won't be boring like Harvey, will he?"
Sarah closed her eyes. It was clear she needed to talk with Mike about Harvey Denton, but right now, Harvey wasn't the issue. Reaching out, she smoothed her son's hair and smiled. For Mike's sake she hoped Mr. Parker liked soccer, but it would be nice if he also enjoyed museums, fine art and good music. Mike would benefit from that, too.
"You in a better mood now, Mom?" Astute blue eyes searched her face.
Sarah touched a finger to his nose. "Was I so bad earlier? Is there something special on your mind?"
"Maybe I should wait… for my new friend." The small boy's eyes rounded anxiously. "Coach said we oughtta ask our parents tonight about soccer camp. It's at the university this summer. We'd get to stay for a whole week. Lotsa pro players come to teach kids like us. Almost all my team is goin'." His eyes changed, suddenly alight with excitement.
"Oh, no, Mike." First Sarah needed to correct his misconception. "These friends don't pay for things like camp." She bit her lip. "Just how expensive are we talking, anyway?"
The sparkle died and his freckles stood out against his pinched white face.
Sarah's heart took a nosedive. It wasn't right to involve him in her financial woes. He was just a child. "Well, how much?" she prompted, trying to sound optimistic.
"A hundred and seventy-five dollars," he mumbled. "But that 'eludes food and a place to sleep. Coach said."
Sarah gasped. "That's more than I need to fix the air conditioner."
"Don't care!" He leapt out of his chair and snatched up his soccer ball. "All the guys are goin'. It's 'portant." With that, he slammed out the back door, uncaring that his chair fell over and hit the floor or that the front doorbell had just chimed.
Nerves stretched to the limit, Sarah righted the chair. On her way down the hall, she said a prayer that Mr. Gabe Parker had the patience to deal with unhappy little boys and frazzled mothers. Then, because the bell pealed three times in succession, she decided be didn't. Girding herself to meet some rushed executive, Sarah yanked open the door, then stood gaping in stunned silence.
It was worse than she could have imagined. A broad-shouldered, suntanned hunk in raggedy cutoffs was shrugging into a faded Hawaiian-print shirt as he loped back down her front steps. And beside her dented silver Mustang sat a shiny blue Porsche, draped stem to stern with a banana-yellow surfboard.
This was all some terrible mistake, Sarah thought frantically. It wasn't the man from the agency. It was just a tourist who had strayed off the beach road and needed directions. She felt better already. "May I help you?" she called.
The stranger turned and squinted up at her. "Is this the Michaels residence?" he asked pleasantly. It was the same deep voice Sarah had heard on the phone. Having buttoned his shirt halfway up from the bottom, he left it. She stared at a wide expanse of sun-bronzed chest with a swirl of pale gold hair. No! she wanted to scream. She wanted to slam her door, pull the drapes and hide. So strong was the feeling she almost missed the apology he was offering.
"Gabriel Parker. Gabe. Sorry about the casual clothes," he said around a very unsorry grin. Or at least that was how it looked to Sarah.
He tipped his head to one side and gave a comical shrug. "I have to confess. It was so hot today I played hooky from work this afternoon and went to the beach. But I'm sure you understand." The man spread his palms and narrowed his gaze, obviously not sure she did.
Speech lodged in Sarah's throat. She was blinded by an aura that ringed his head. Kind of an off-kilter halo created by the last rays of sun splintering through his too-long, wind-mussed, taffy-blond hair. Hysteria rose and suddenly her nagging headache turned into a full-scale migraine.
"Are you Mrs. Michaels?" he asked. "Forgive me for saying so, but you look too young to be anyone's mother, and this neighborhood is a cut above what I was expecting." He glanced around.
His smooth compliment snapped Sarah out of her reverie as nothing else could. Although he was taller and not so slender as Farrell, this man's attire, his practiced charm and his shiny surf board might have been cloned. No way would she let this younger version of her ex-husband near her son!
Sarah glared down at him. "I never claimed to be destitute. I'm looking for a stabilizing influence for my son, Mr. Parker. Not some…some irresponsible surf bum. I'm sorry you've come out of your way, but this arrangement is not at all acceptable."
"I beg your pardon?" He moved up a step and met her eye to eye.
"Beg all you want." Her lips tightened.
He pulled a wrinkled letter out of his back pocket and gave it to her. "A recommendation from Bill Evans may ease your mind. It says I've lived on Oahu all my life and that I own a business in Waikiki."
The note also mentioned the Parker hotels that were his background, but Gabe tended to play that down. And this woman didn't seem to care if he was King Midas himself. She gave no sign of reading the letter. Out of frustration, Gabe retaliated. "Bill Evans told me you were pretty uptight, but he didn't say…"
Sarah's hands clenched. "Uptight?" she interrupted. "You know nothing at all about me, Mr. Parker. I'd like you to go. Please…just leave." She thrust back his letter. "Believe me, this won't work."
"You bet. I couldn't agree more." He stuffed the envelope into the tight pocket of his shorts. Backing down a step, he asked stiffly, "Will you call the agency or shall I?"
Before Sarah could snap that there was plenty she had to say to Mr. Evans, the family coordinator and director at Befriend an Island Child, a blue-and-white soccer ball sailed over the side fence, hit a crack in the sidewalk and careered wildly toward her head.
Quick as a cat, Gabe Parker reached out a broad hand and stopped it from striking her in the face.
Somewhere close by, a gate slammed. All at once the sturdy figure of her son loped into sight.
"Farr…Mike…oh, no," Sarah cried faintly. "No. Stay back."
Seeing the adults on the steps, the boy skidded to a stop and hung his tousled head. "Sorry," he said, obviously in awe of the tall golden-haired stranger. "I don't kick so good. Coach said."
Sarah closed her eyes and slumped against the door. "Why me, Lord?" she muttered.
Gabe Parker sent her a dark look and dropped to one knee. He closed the child's trembling hands around the ball and said gently, "Try using the side of your foot next time, instead of your toe. You'll control the ball better."
"Wow!" The freckled little face lit up. "Will you show me how?"
Parker frowned. His cool gaze clashed with Sarah's. Then he stood and massaged the back of his neck. "I was just leaving."
Gabe didn't have a clue as to what was going on inside her head, but it was plain she didn't like him. And frankly the feeling was mutual.
The child darted a furtive glance toward his mother, then back to Gabe. "I don't guess you wanna be my friend, after all, huh, Mr. Parker? Mom said you might not…"
Sarah stifled a cry of protest as Gabe turned the full force of ice-blue eyes her way. Damn him! Couldn't he see she was trapped? After all, he had agreed it wouldn't work. But it was to her the boy looked with his heart in his eyes
. She shut hers and vigorously rubbed her temples. Maybe she'd wake up and find this was all just a ghastly dream. But she opened her eyes and felt overwhelmed to find nothing had changed.
Gabe saw the panic in her sherry-brown eyes, but he also saw something more. He saw how much she loved this boy. That alone prompted him to give his mission another try. Although, for the life of him, Gabe couldn't imagine why, when the agency had a lot less-difficult people on the waiting list. Placing a foot on the lowest step, he faced her, gaze steady. "What do you say we both give this some thought tonight and discuss it again tomorrow?"
His voice rumbled in Sarah's head. She nodded mutely. Right now, more than anything in the world, she wanted him gone.
CHAPTER TWO
All in all, Gabe Parker had been more decent than Sarah expected. After agreeing that she should call Mr. Evans the next day to ask about a replacement, he still offered to drop by around four to help Mike with his kicking. They could discuss the outcome then, he said.
Ecstatic, Mike took his bath and went to bed without argument.
Sarah had to admit she should have been less grudging with her thanks, particularly since Parker had helped her out of a tight spot. Of course, they both knew how it would end. Even so, he could have walked away and left her to deal with disappointment and tears. But, unless Mr. Evans at the agency could produce a miracle, she had one day's reprieve at best.
Laundry done but not sorted, Sarah showered and fell exhausted into bed. She tossed and turned all night and finally managed to doze off toward morning.
At 6 a.m. she was pulled from her sleep by a loud crash. Disoriented, sleepy-eyed, she squinted up at the shadowy outline of her son. Closer inspection showed him looking guilty, clutching a plastic tray on which a stack of charred toast lay awash in water from a slender vase. And could that be a delicate baby orchid floating in a muddy cup of coffee? "Is this Mother's Day?" Sarah croaked. "I know it's not my birthday."
"I'm real sorry, Mom," the shaken child said. "I was just bringin' you breakfast in bed—'cause I acted so crummy last night."